


Wrecked

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fisting, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John is a wreck; splayed out on Sherlock’s bed, his body slick with sweat and the strange new lubricant Sherlock has concocted out of god-knows-what.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrecked

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the awesome dracosoftie and roozette!

John is a wreck; splayed out on Sherlock’s bed, his body slick with sweat and the strange new lubricant Sherlock has concocted out of god-knows-what. His back arches as Sherlock’s fingers twist inside him, held in place by a pair of handcuffs Sherlock lifted off Lestrade and Donovan. Sherlock has had him on the edge for more than an hour already, has been torturing him with pleasure and the promise of release only to take it all away seconds before John actually comes, cruel fingers staving off orgasm after orgasm.

John is positive he cannot take anymore of this, that Sherlock intends to kill him this way, and he should care, he knows this. But every brush of Sherlock’s fingertips over John’s prostate brings an explosion of color behind his eyelids, makes his blood sing and weep in his veins, and John cannot bring himself to stop.

“Sherlock—Sherlock, _please_ ,” he begs, straining desperately toward the ever-elusive release.

“Not yet. I want—” Sherlock pauses, for once unsure of how to articulate what he’s feeling.

“You are going to break me if you draw this out much longer,” John gasps, because it’s true and because he knows it’s what Sherlock wants to see, to hear.

“ _Yesss._ ”

The word is a hiss that slithers up John’s spine, sends shocks of awareness through his limbs. He wants it too, wants to be deconstructed by Sherlock, through pain and pleasure and _oh, **god**_ , he wants it now. _Needs_ it.

Sherlock’s fingers disappear as he reaches for the rapidly diminishing lubricant and he pours far more than necessary over the slender digits before returning them, working John open even wider until he can slide in his pinkie. He’s down to only his thumb left, and he eyes the ring of muscle clenched firmly around him, wondering if it’s even possible, fitting his hand – his _whole hand_ – into John’s body like this. _Physically_ , he knows he can, though it is dangerous and not the most practiced form of sex. But this has nothing to do with factual knowledge; this is something larger than all of that.

He pulls back, uses his free hand to tip a bit more lubricant over his fingers and works his thumb in by pinching all his fingers together. He watches John stretch around him, watches how he opens wider and wider, accepting Sherlock’s hand – accepting _Sherlock_ – into his body. Sherlock has been hard since he began the slow buildup to this, and he feels his cock throb, trapped by the black trousers he is still wearing. Even his shirt remains on; unbuttoned and with the shirtsleeves rolled to the bend of his elbow, but on nonetheless.

John lets out a low, keening sound when the fullest part of Sherlock’s hand begins to press inward and he pauses to see if it is a sound of pain. There is a fine tremor in John’s extremities as he scrabbles desperately at the headboard with his fingers, seeking purchase, but he’s also caught his bottom lip between his teeth and he’s pushing back against Sherlock, urging him on, so any pain he must be feeling is welcome. It should not turn Sherlock on as much as it does. It should, in fact, worry him, but John trusts him, and so Sherlock trusts himself not to bring undue pain.

His free hand lands on John’s belly, taut from the work-out John pushes himself through despite the strain it puts on his shoulder, and rubs in slow, wide circles as he pushes in carefully. He pauses again, abandons John’s stomach in favor of gently massaging the muscle gripping his hand, working in tandem to ease the transition, until he’s in, John’s body closing painfully around the bones of Sherlock’s wrist.

And oh, the beauty of it, his long fingers closed over his thumb, pressing in together to make his fist as compact as possible. Sherlock has to stop, and he rests his forehead against John’s knee, which he thinks is probably there for that sole purpose. His breath catches in his throat as he stares down at where they are joined and Sherlock feels as though he’s about to fly apart at any second.

When he has his breathing under control once more, Sherlock lets his gaze lock on John’s, watches for even the faintest suggestion of pain as he shifts the hand within John. It’s amazing, feeling the fluttery contractions of John’s muscles as he tries to remain relaxed and Sherlock rewards him by reaching up to stroke his cock – which, he’s surprised to note, hasn’t even begun to flag.

It is slow going from there, Sherlock taking his time as he gently presses in deeper, flexes his fist and strokes the soft, spongy walls with his knuckles, taking care to rub over John’s prostate. The low moan is all Sherlock needs to know that John is enjoying this, but Sherlock cannot tear his eyes away from John’s face. He watches as John’s lips part, tongue darting out to wet them as he struggles not to move, to let Sherlock do the work. It was part of their agreement, at Sherlock’s insistence because he knows he can make John beg, can have him fucking himself on Sherlock’s cock with only a look, and that would be dangerous like this.

He wants to talk, wants to tell John how good it feels, how overwhelming the sensation is of having John hot and tight around him, body stretched wide to accommodate something much larger than a cock. He opens his mouth twice, thinks, ‘ _Yes_ ,’ and ‘ _So good, John. So good I could stay like this all day_ ,’ but the words catch in this throat, tangle around one another so that instead what comes out is, “So beautiful.”

John gasps, body going taut, clenching down hard and then he’s coming and Sherlock is struck dumb by the sight because this is John completely broken down, stripped of everything save what Sherlock has allowed him and he is beautiful like this, in a strange, new way that has Sherlock sucking in a sharp breath. And John is still moving, hips jerking as the aftershocks of his orgasm rock through him and Sherlock thinks he won’t be able to get his trousers undone quickly enough. That doesn’t matter, though, because John chooses that moment to groan out Sherlock’s name, voice raw and broken from two hours of having Sherlock touching him.

Sherlock lets out a startled cry, fights the instinct to pull his hand back as he doubles over, coming hot and fast, completely untouched and still clothed. He would feel ashamed, except he can’t, not when he’s staring at John’s trembling body, breathing in John’s scent. He drops his head back against John’s thigh only long enough to catch his breath, then begins to slowly withdraw his hand.

John hisses, and the sound carries a mixture of pain and residual pleasure that has Sherlock wanting to wrap his arms around John soothingly and flip him over so Sherlock can fuck him properly in turns. He settles for fetching a warm cloth to wash John with, fingers gentle as they rub in the balm that will help ease any lingering pain. There are no signs of tearing, so Sherlock presses a quick kiss to the tender skin before shedding his clothes, unlocking the handcuffs and sliding into the bed beside John.

“Well?” John asks finally, watching Sherlock warily from the corner of his eye.

Sherlock smiles, leans in to press his lips to John’s and whispers, “You’ll have to watch the video.”

John doesn’t even pretend he’s surprised or even outraged. He yawns instead and settles into a more comfortable position. Sherlock tucks his face into the curve of John’s neck, sighs when a strong arm curls around his shoulders, and succumbs to sleep.


End file.
